For much of my Christian life, I struggled with a quiet question I was almost afraid to ask:
Why didn’t I feel close to God?
I loved Jesus. I was deeply grateful for His forgiveness. I read Scripture, prayed faithfully, and sincerely wanted to walk with Him. Yet I often heard other Christians describe a level of intimacy with God that felt foreign to me. They spoke of sensing His presence, hearing His voice, and experiencing a closeness that seemed almost tangible.
As a new Christian in the 1980s, I listened to countless testimonies from believers who described powerful spiritual experiences. Many spoke through tears about how God had transformed their lives and how near He felt to them. I longed for that kind of connection.
Because I didn’t experience those same emotions, I often assumed something was wrong with me. I tried harder. I prayed more fervently. I searched my heart. Yet instead of feeling closer to God, I often felt anxious about not feeling close enough.
Ironically, I could be deeply moved by someone else’s testimony. I would often weep while hearing stories of God’s faithfulness and grace. Yet when I told my own story, I sometimes felt strangely disconnected from the emotions I knew should have been there.
Over time, I found myself gravitating toward a faith centered primarily on knowledge, doctrine, and obedience. While those things are vitally important, I quietly set aside my longing for connection. It seemed easier to focus on doing the right things than wrestling with why intimacy with God felt so difficult.
In recent years, however, I learned more about attachment theory, relational wounds, and the effects of trauma on the way people experience relationships—including their relationship with God. As an adoptee, it has been eye-opening to realize that our ability to receive love, trust others, and experience connection can be shaped by experiences we may not even fully understand.
One of the most freeing realizations has been this: God’s presence is not dependent on my ability to feel it.
Whether I sense Him, hear him clearly, or “feel” connected, He is present. He is speaking. And He always remains faithful.
So rather than striving to manufacture feelings, I’ve begun focusing on attunement—learning to slow down, listen, and become aware of the God who is already near. Prayer was never intended to be a one-sided monologue. It is an invitation into relationship.
Some days I sense that connection more than others. Some days I don’t. But I am learning to rest in the truth that God is not absent simply because I don’t feel Him. He is patiently at work, healing, teaching, and drawing me closer to Himself.
At the heart of every human being is a longing to know and be known. And the only One who fulfills that longing perfectly is Jesus.
“For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.” (1 Corinthians 13:12)
